“You have twice as many followers as The Knight Cap. And your posts are way prettier. Although, I have to admit, the Lumberjerk isn’t hard to look at.”

Paul makes a face. “Man, this guy wears a lot of plaid.”

I throw my hands up in the air. “Yes! Exactly! Every freaking day it’s plaid, plaid, and more plaid!”

“Well that’s the uniform over there, isn’t it?” Daphne says.

“Don’t defend the plaid.”

Daphne shrugs. “It kinda works for him, though.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side, but I’m also allowed to appreciate a hottie, and this guy is smokin’, with or without the plaid. I will say, though, it’s clear that he doesn’t have a professional helping him with this. All of these pictures are candid and based on the number of selfies from the bartender I’m going to hazard a guess that he’s the one posting most of this stuff.” Daphne shows me an image of a younger guy, smirking at the camera while Ronan pours a pint in the background.

“Let’s hope they don’t hire anyone then, because I’d like to keep the social media leg up on him. And hot or not, we need to do better than the whole axe-throwing thing he’s got going on over there.”

“Mmm, it’s a double draw, isn’t it? Hot guys and axe throwing in a college town is high on the yes-please scale.”

As if they can hear us talking through the wall—which they can’t, the plywood is thick and the music is loud enough that the low thump of bass makes the floor vibrate—a thud, followed by shouts of approval and some muffled chanting, makes all of us jump. “Someone hit the target.” And based on the chanting, it was the resident Lumberjerk.

Daphne taps her lip with a manicured nail. “You know what we need to do?”

“Steal all of the axes and break off the handles?” Paul suggests.

“Axes can be replaced and theft isn’t a good way to get ahead. We need to fight axes with cupcakes.” Daphne makes a face and waves that comment away. “What I mean is that we should roll the cupcake-drink theme into events.”

“You want to have a salted caramel event?” I ask.

“No. Well, yes. Kind of. Like we come up with different theme nights to draw in new customers the same way we have theme cupcakes and drinks every day. We need something buzz-worthy that’s going to help us get more nominations.”

“Okay. So what can we do that’s better than axe throwing? And I don’t want to do something that’s super dangerous.” The last thing I want is someone chopping off a vital body part. I can barely handle a paper cut without getting woozy.

“We could hold a cupcake-decorating contest. Winner gets a fifty-dollar gift card? That way the money goes back into Buttercream and Booze.”

“Ooooh! I like this. That could be super fun.”

“Exactly!” Daphne agrees. “I don’t know that we need to try to compete with The Knight Cap. Your clientele is during the day and into the evening, where Lumberjerk caters to the evening and late night crowd. So I think we need to focus on what attracts people here and what we can do to keep them entertained for as long as possible.”

“Okay, so we need to poll our customers and find out what other kinds of events they’d be interested in. Karaoke is always a winner, and trivia nights are super fun. I always loved a good poetry slam night back when I was in college.”

Paul scoffs.

I cross my arms. “What? Poetry slams are fun.”

Paul cocks a brow. “I’m sure for you they are.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You look like a cross between a librarian and a fifties pinup girl. The fact that poetry slams excite you isn’t even a remote surprise.”

“Whatever. You just wait, my poetry slam nights are going to make axe throwing seem like a trip on a snooze cruise.”

“Gettin’ your rhyme on already?” Daphne smirks.

“It must be the booze.”

They chuckle and groan.

“But seriously, when it comes to poetry slams, I never lose.”

chapter five

Poke the Agitated Alice

Ronan

The books look good so far.” My grandfather pushes his glasses up his nose, bushy white eyebrows furrowed, shoulders hunched as he leans in close and leafs through the printed reports. Being in his eighties means everything gets lost in translation when he’s looking at a computer screen with the exact same numbers, so I print things out for him, even though it makes forests cry.

He rolls his shoulders back, sitting up straighter as he looks around the bar. His eyes crinkle in the corners, the lines in his face deepening with his wistful smile. “The renovations look good, too.”

I lean on the bar, pride choking me up, so my reply comes out a little gruff. “Thanks Gramps.” It was hard for him when I started changing things, so he hadn’t come in much for a while, but he’s back to popping in almost every other day.

He pats my arm with his big, knobby fingers. Gramps and I are about the same height, although he’s lost a couple of inches with age. His white shock of hair is slicked back and styled neatly, and as usual he’s wearing a white button-down and a pair of black dress pants. “Back in my day the only guys who decorated their skin were the ones who were in the Navy or spent some time behind bars.” He tells me this pretty much every single time he sees me, which is often, especially now that I’m helping run his bar. Mostly it’s a joke. Although the first time he saw my sleeves he asked me why I couldn’t hang my art on my walls like regular people.

“I can make you an appointment, get you set up with your own art if you’re jealous of mine. We could get matching ones.”

Gramps snorts a laugh. “I don’t even like it when a pretty nurse takes my blood. Not gonna have some guy coming at me with a bunch o’ buzzing needles.”

I rap on the bar and point a finger at him. “Just remember that when you tell a nurse she’s pretty nowadays it’s called sexual harassment.”

“It’s really a woman’s world, isn’t it? Can’t say we didn’t have it comin’ or that Dottie didn’t tell me it would happen. God rest her soul.” He makes the sign of the cross, and I do the same.